


Darling, Darling

by tsauergrass



Series: Prompted [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (lots of fluff), Fluff, French, M/M, cherry pie, french endearments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 09:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20833355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsauergrass/pseuds/tsauergrass
Summary: Harry kisses him again. Longer, this time, his hand coming up to cup Draco’s cheek. Fingers threading through the short tufts of hair by his ears. He can’t quite hide the curve of his smile, can’t quite stop himself from grinning—feels the echoing curve of Draco’s at his lips. Pulls away when Draco is just about to open his mouth.Draco huffs, annoyed.“Come on.”“Circe, you are such a pain.”“I don’t have to be. I think I heard…cœur? Mon cœur?”“Mon cœur,yes.” Draco looks away, cheeks tinging pink. “It meansyou oaf.”





	Darling, Darling

“What was that?”

Draco shakes his head, still mumbling. Harry wants to ask but doesn’t. Drops his head instead, stuffs the cherries back under the pie crust. Under the kitchen light, they gleam like jewels.

Draco smears a streak of flour across his cheeks, brows furrowed.

Of course he knows Draco used to speak French. He knows that Draco still speaks it, too, sometimes, even though he’s spoken English ever since Hogwarts—like an afterthought, a slipped music note. Just a mumbling, or when he stubs his toe into the corner of a table leg—a string of curses flowing out of his mouth like a poem. Or during sleep. When he stirs, sleep marks tender on his cheek, his face half-buried into the pillows—hair tousled. Lips parted, as if the syllables were still on the tip of his tongue, still floating through his dreams.

Harry has always been a little afraid to kiss him, then. Like afraid to poke a dream awake.

The pies were sent into the oven, the timer set. Draco reaches his arms behind his back and attempts to untie the apron. He doesn’t seem to succeed, though, brows furrowing again as he grumbles, irritated. Harry laughs and walks over, pulls the tie loose. Touches his fingers to Draco’s.

Draco sighs faintly, shoulders loosening.

“What were you saying just then?” Harry mumbles into the nook behind Draco’s ears.

“Oh.” Draco turns a little towards Harry, distracted. “It was nothing.”

“Still. I want to know.”

“Just murmuring to myself, is all.”

“Yeah?” Harry kisses him. A peck, light on the lips. “Is that what it was?”

Draco smiles faintly. “Yes.”

Harry kisses him again, another peck. Then another, and another. Draco hums, hips bumping into the counter. Harry kisses him again, just a little longer.

“Are you trying to bribe me?” Draco laughs softly, enjoying himself. “With kisses?”

Harry kisses him again. Longer, this time, his hand coming up to cup Draco’s cheek. Fingers threading through the short tufts of hair by his ears. He can’t quite hide the curve of his smile, can’t quite stop himself from grinning—feels the echoing curve of Draco’s at his lips. Pulls away when Draco is just about to open his mouth.

Draco huffs, annoyed.

“Come on.”

“Circe, you are such a pain.”

“I don’t have to be. I think I heard… _cœur? Mon cœur?”_

_“Mon cœur,_ yes.” Draco looks away, cheeks tinging pink. “It means _you oaf.”_

“Oaf?” Harry frowns slightly, but soon grins again. “Oh, you’re _mon cœur,_ then. You’re clumsy.”

“I am not clumsy.”

“Yes you are. You couldn’t get the cherries to stay under the crust.” Harry tugs at the loosened apron, chuckles when it slides off Draco’s shoulder instead. He pulls Draco closer by his sweater. _“Mon cœur. Co… cœur? Mon cœur?”_

“Oh, shut up.”

Harry’s retort is on the tip of his tongue when Draco kisses him. Shuts him up, all blushed cheeks and awkward hands. Harry slackens, opens his mouth. Tilts his head, angling them deeper. Draco’s hips dig into the counter, the fallen apron pressed tight between them, wrinkled.

The thing is, they’ve never had pet names for each other. It’s always been Draco and Harry. _Draco._ If he says it slow enough, he can taste the shape of the word, how it twinkles like stars on his tongue: two syllables rolling after each other, years and years of history in them. How far they’ve come for him to call him _Draco_ instead of _Malfoy._ How Draco had blushed when he first called him by his name that Harry never thought to change any other wise. Such intimacy in two syllables that every time he says it, it sounds like a poem in itself. A lock none other than the both of them can decipher, like whispering love.

They kiss, slow. Deep. There is no reason to feel tender, to feel laid bare—yet he does. Draco’s hands come to clutch at his jumper.

“It doesn’t mean _you oaf,_ does it?” Harry murmurs into Draco’s mouth.

Draco shakes his head, still dazed. Lips still parted.

“What does it mean?”

“My heart,” Draco whispers.

Oh.

“Oh.” Harry lets out a laugh, nudges their noses together. “You’re still _mon cœur,_ then.”

“And you are going back to Scarhead,” Draco murmurs. “That pronunciation is atrocious.”

Harry laughs and presses their foreheads together. Draco is blushing fiercely down his neck. Harry pecks him again, playful.

_“Mon cœur?”_

_“Mon cœur,”_ Draco echoes, closing his eyes.

That night, the cherries taste sweeter than usual.


End file.
